


Where Two or More Are Gathered

by ladyphlogiston



Category: Elementary (TV), Mary Russell - Laurie R. King, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossing Parallels, Friendship, Gen, Multiverse, Parallel Universes, doppelgangers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyphlogiston/pseuds/ladyphlogiston
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four Sherlocks, one room, lots of questions.</p><p>When four different Holmes villains start working together, four different Holmeses have to work together to figure out what they're up to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been posting this on fanfiction.net, but someone suggested I try ao3 so I'm posting it here as well. It's late, so I'll post the first chapter or two now and the rest of what's written tomorrow.

Sherlock and I had just finished breakfast when it happened.

There was a flash of blue light, and then everything went black. I woke up lying on a hard surface, listening to unfamiliar voices.

Two voices, both male, spoke at once.

"Wake up, John."

"Do get up, Watson."

They stopped. There was a pause. The one nearer me spoke. "His name is John Watson?"

The other answered. "Yes. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. John Watson."

"...Likewise."

That seemed...unlikely. I opened my eyes, but all I could see in the harsh white lights was white marble floor and a white marble table and steel chairs with white fabric seats.

"I'm sorry, what?" a new voice asked. "Sherlock, where are we?"

"I have dozens of ideas, John, but none of them seem probable."

"Oh, do get up, Watson," came from across the table. "Whatever drug was used on us produces nothing but a slight headache."

There was a grunt, as another man hauled himself to his feet. "Holmes, who is this?"

"Sherlock Holmes, apparently."

The nearer John spoke again, sounding as bewildered as I felt. "Good Lord, there's two of them."

"Three, actually." Sherlock - my Sherlock - got to his feet. He was still wearing the worn sweater he'd put on before breakfast, and he hadn't shaved. I wondered if he regretted it. Probably not. "For a moment I thought I was back in rehab."

I looked up at him, and he offered me a hand. "This is my apprentice, Joan Watson. Also a surgeon, I might add."

There was a sputtering sound from across the table. A burly gentleman with a blond mustache was staring at me indignantly. His suit looked like something from the Victorian era. The man standing next to him was tall and thin, with a long face, dark thinning hair, and what looked like a purple velvet bathrobe worn over his shirt. I guessed the tall, thin one was a Sherlock Holmes ( _a_  Sherlock Holmes. What a strange thought.) and the blond one was John Watson. Sherlock would never wear a suit that fussy.

"Former surgeon," I corrected Sherlock. I looked around at the room, pulled out the chair in front of me and sat down. "I don't suppose there's any water."

A pitcher of water and several glasses appeared on the table in front of me.

I stared at them, then shakily poured myself a glass of water and drank it. It wasn't an illusion. It tasted like water. It had appeared out of thin air, with no more fuss than a little shimmering.

I distracted myself by looking around the room. It was a round room, with high ceilings and a clinical feel. The white marble table was pentagonal, with two chairs on each side. The surface had black glass insets here and there. Some sort of touchscreen, maybe? The walls were covered in shelves and wire racks, all empty except one, which was piled with books.

The side of the table to our left was empty, and the one beyond that had the Victorian Holmes and Watson. To our right was the other set of men. One was tall and thin and wore a button-down shirt which only made him look taller and thinner. His sharp cheekbones saved his face from being narrow, and his thick lips were currently tightly pressed together. The other man was shorter and looked more bewildered, but I liked his military jacket.

A groan came from across the table. A dark-haired woman got to her feet. She wore a high-necked dark dress, a locket around her neck and a plain gold band on her finger, and ink stains on her left hand.

"I suppose your name is also Watson," said the Victorian Holmes.

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Russell, actually. Mary Russell." She turned to help the man with her to his feet. "This is Sherlock Holmes." He was dressed in a filthy coat pulled over a ragged-looking shirt.

He tipped his disreputable cap to Holmes. "Pleasure, guv," he squeaked cheerfully, his accent making the words difficult to understand.

The other three Holmses tilted their heads slightly in almost identical gestures of consideration. No one spoke for a moment. "Your G is too gutteral for a proper Cockney," said the Victorian Holmes.

"Indeed," replied the Holmes in rags, in more refined accents. "I have always found the G of the Cockney and the G of the Welsh miner to be curiously similar, haven't you?"

"Similar, yes, but then I believe you may trace..." Victorian Holmes moved towards him, and I stopped listening. I'd long ago learned to tune Sherlock out when he got going, and apparently these versions were no different.

"Four Sherlock Holmeses. This must be what going mad feels like." The shorter man next to us sat at the table and put his head in his hands. I recognized his voice as John, so the tall one with dark curly hair must be Sherlock.

"I think it might be Sherlocks Holmes, actually," responded my Sherlock, sitting next to me and adjusting the set of his sweater.

"If you were using a title, it would be Misters Sherlock Holmes, which would at least pluralize the correct noun," suggested Mary Russell.

"Are we really having this argument?" I asked. "Where are we?"

"Sherlock was saying that none of his ideas seem probable," John offered.

"That's not the way to approach it," corrected Holmes across the table, breaking off his lecture about Welsh consonants and pulling a pipe - an actual pipe - out of the pocket of his bathrobe. "When you have eliminated the impossible..."

"Oh, granted," interrupted the Sherlock next to us, picking up the pitcher of water from in front of me and carrying it back to his section of the table. "But that's just the trick, isn't it?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Good afternoon."

An opening had appeared in the wall, and a young woman stood looking calmly at us. Her slim figure was wrapped in draped light blue fabric somewhere between a toga and a kimono. Her hair looked dull and dark, but that was probably only the harsh lighting. Silver jewelry glittered at her neck and wrists. She strode to the empty side of the table and tapped the black glass panel gently. All the glass panels lit up and displayed a blank blue screen.

"I apologize for the manner and timing of your appearance here. Unfortunately matters are sufficiently urgent to make a more courteous approach not practicable. I trust none of you are feeling ill effects from your transfer." She lifted her hand, and glasses of water appeared in front of each chair, accompanied by small dishes of nuts and fruit. "A light snack will help your bodies readjust."

She looked around at eight staring faces and smiled. "Please, sit down."

After a moment, people moved to sit. I looked at the dish in front of me. I recognized strawberries and grapes and pecans, and a star-shaped sliced fruit that seemed vaguely familiar, but the melon seemed tinged with blue and I was certain I'd never seen the orange-green round things before.

I glanced over at Sherlock. He'd never admit to not recognizing something, so I might as well. "Several of these fruits are unfamiliar to me," I said.

"They would be," the young woman nodded. "There are fruits and nuts that none of you have seen before. They are, however, quite tasty."

I looked at them, shrugged, and popped one of the orange-green spheres into my mouth. It really was very tasty. Sort of a salty-sweet taste, with the bready feeling of comfort food.

She looked around and smiled. "While matters are urgent, they are not so very pressing that we cannot afford time for some...parlor tricks, I suppose. If you will indulge me, I would like each of you to write down what you have observed and deduced about your current situation. You will find recording implements in front of you," she added with another gesture at the table. A keyboard appeared in front of me, and the screen tilted up so I could read what I typed. Looking around, I saw that some people had gotten pen-shaped styluses instead. The young woman continued, "Let me know if you would like something different. Use the pens to write on the blue screens, as if it were paper. None of you are required to participate, and all of you are invited to do so, but of course it is primarily a contest between the five Holmeses."

"Five! I count four," Holmes objected, jerking himself forward so that his velvet robe fell open.

The young woman smiled serenely. "Of course you do."

The room fell silent then, though I could heard Dr. Watson's exclamations as his words scrolled under his pen. Maybe he really was from the Victorian era.

So what did I know? Miss Russell was probably the fifth Holmes. She was wearing a wedding ring, and I couldn't imagine someone hanging out with Holmes and having a stable relationship with anyone else. That's why I'd mostly given up on dating for the time being, after all. Someone crazy enough to marry a Holmes was probably also feminist enough to keep her maiden name.

I didn't know where we were. They obviously had money, and they obviously had technology beyond anything I was familiar with. I remembered the water appearing on the table in front of me, like something out of Star Trek. Very advanced technology.

Star Trek made me think of the science fiction ideas of parallel timelines and other universes. Could that be possible? The Sherlocks Holmes seemed eerily similar, and I refused to believe that there were four of them living on Earth and unaware of each other. Unless Sherlock had been hiding something from me...I tried to remember if there had been any sign of familiarity, any indication that they were playing a part, but I couldn't think of anything. I'd gotten pretty good at spotting liars in my career as a sober companion, and this felt honest. And, if parallel universes or timelines or whatever did exist, then you'd need Star Trek-level technology to get people from them.

If that were the case, then we had four men, all of them creepily good at logic and deduction and memory. I wondered how far the similarities went. Did they all have problems with drugs? I glanced around the room. I knew the Victorian Holmes smoked a pipe, but there weren't any obvious signs of harder drugs. Then again, my Sherlock had only used harder drugs occasionally, until his crash after Irene's death. Did they all work as consulting detectives? Probably. I couldn't imagine Sherlock doing anything else.

And what about the Watsons? I knew the others were both doctors. Were they both surgeons? Sober companions?

"How fast can you type on that thing?" Miss Russell asked. She was looking at the Sherlock next to us.

He glanced up. "Approximately 70 words per minute."

A grunt came from my Sherlock, slouched over his keyboard. Accustomed to storing information in his head rather than on his computer, he wasn't quite that fast.

"And it doesn't jam?" Miss Russell asked.

"Rarely. Why would it?"

"Well, I've worked on a typewriter before, and those would jam at that speed. And the layout looks similar."

"These are descended from typewriters, I believe, but the technology is different. Keys occasionally get stuck, but they don't jam in the same way." He paused. "Actually, there's no reason to think this device works in the way I am accustomed to, any more than your pen."

One by one, the keyboards stopped clicking and the pens were laid down. The young woman at the head of the table looked up reading the screen in front of her.

"Excellent," she said. "Computer, please put everyone's submissions on the screen."

The wall behind her lit up and columns of text appeared, each headed with a photograph of the person who had written it. Several people gasped. I wondered how they'd gotten it formatted so quickly. Perhaps someone in another room had pasted it all into a template.

"Please highlight accurate deductions." The text lit up with colored bars, then rearranged itself so similar deductions and observations could be compared.

"I see several of you realized that Miss Russell and Mr. Holmes are married, making Miss Russell the fifth Holmes," she said.

"I beg your pardon!" Victorian Holmes sat forward indignantly, his thinning hair disarranged slightly by the motion.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" calmly inquired Miss Russell.

"How the devil - excuse me, how the dickens can you be married?"

"I chose to keep my name, Mr. Holmes. I am sorry if that upsets your idea of how things are done."

He looked around, but saw that no one else was in sympathy with him. He sat back, shaken. I looked at the column of writing under his picture. He hadn't come up with much.

The young woman at the front smiled. "Several of you have speculated about doppelgangers and parallel universes, I see, and all of you realized that you have been brought here for your assistance in investigating something important, though that's hardly a difficult conclusion to reach. Your comments on the technology are interesting, the differences mostly highlighting the cultures each of you come from."

She flicked her fingers in the air, and the text rearranged, displaying prominently the guesses and deductions they had made about each other. Whatever software they were using must be amazing. "Dr. Watson, I strongly advise you to avoid making deductions from the clothing of others. Societal norms have changed more quickly than you have allowed for," she added in a voice of strong disapproval.

Dr. Watson harrumphed and looked abashed. I looked closer at his column. He hadn't actually called me a slut, but he'd come close. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. If he really was from the Victorian era, I supposed his conclusion was not entirely unreasonable.

"...and I see that the younger Sherlocks will need to do a little remedial research on the Victorian era," continued the young woman, paging through their descriptions.

"Do you mean to say that we have all come from the same place?" inquired the Holmes who sat by Miss Russell.

"No, or at least not exactly, but you do come from places which share sufficient cultural trends that knowledge of your own history would have allowed you to accurately deduce that of others. I'll explain properly in a bit."

"Knowledge of the Victorian era has never been of use or interest before now, and I fail to see its utility now," came the other Sherlock's deep voice next to us. "I have participated in your little parlor game, and now I would like an explanation."

The young woman smiled dazzlingly at him. "Of course," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

The young woman at the front smiled at us and briefly lifted her hand in the air. The screens on the wall behind her went black and then lit up again, displaying a moving pattern of spheres and stars.

"My name is Noenna, Lady Wisemagic. The Wisemagic family is...well, for the purposes of this discussion, we're the police. We monitor inter-universal travel and communication and control inter-universal crime. Our resources and abilities are extensive. I will not go into detail about them now, but can do so later if you wish.

"The rules that govern the similarities between universes are complex, and we do not yet fully understand them. One of our sayings is that 'most fiction isn't,' meaning that fictional things in one universe are frequently based on real events elsewhere. Finding you was simply a matter of knowing where to look.

"Unfortunately, more capable cops eventually leads to more capable criminals. We have reason to believe that criminals from each of your civilizations have found each other and are joining their efforts. We don't know what they have planned. They have largely managed to elude our normal methods of information-gathering, mostly by relying on ink and paper and the memory of the individual rather than computers we could hack. We cannot directly learn their plans without an unacceptable violation of the privacy of the individual."

"If you don't mind my asking, could you do it if you were willing to violate their privacy?" asked Miss Russell's Holmes. "If the majority of their plans are memorized rather than written, there would be no way to pull the thoughts out of their heads."

"Actually, there would be. I am telepathic, and so are several others. But, as I said, I choose not to read the minds of those around me without their consent, and that is carefully enforced among us." She paused, and turned to the Victorian Holmes and Watson. "Have you come across the term telepathy? I am not certain whether you would have heard it yet."

Mr. Holmes stared at her blankly. Dr. Watson wrinkled his brow, as if trying to remember. "I seem to remember seeing it," he replied. "Oh yes, that Doyle fellow mentioned it the other day. Something about knowing what other people are thinking?"

"Correct. Telepathy is the ability to hear or see the thoughts of others. Those who can only sense emotion are called empaths."

"Could you prove these claims?" Sherlock spoke up beside me. "I'm sorry, but we have no real reason to trust you, and you must admit your claim is extraordinary."

"Of course. May I have permission to read your mind for a few minutes?" she asked.

"One moment please," he replied. He stared straight ahead, thinking. "Go ahead," he said.

Noenna looked at him curiously and then spoke. "When the family is large and honey abundant, a brood of drones is reared; the number, probably, depends on the yield of honey, and size of the swarm, more than anything else. As honey becomes scarce, they are destroyed..."

Sherlock was staring at her. "That's correct," he said softly.

She smiled. "I don't recognize the source. What is that?"

" _Mysteries of Bee-Keeping Explained_ , by N. Quimby," said Miss Russell's Holmes, staring at Sherlock. "Why on earth were you reading that?"

"The author was M. Quinby, and I wished to compare older methods of apiary structure with the modern ones," said Sherlock. "Do you keep bees also?"

"I do. But I'm quite certain it was N. Quimby," objected the other Holmes.

"I suspect you are both correct," cut in Noenna. "Remember that you are from similar but not identical universes."

The two Holmses stared at each other, then turned back to Noenna, who smiled at them.

"I imagine you will find many similar points of similarity. As I said, criminals from your lives are collaborating. You were brought here in the hope that, between you, you will work out what they are planning in time for us to stop them. You will of course have access to all the information we have, and whatever else you might need. You are welcome to leave at any time, but for as long as you wish to stay we are happy to provide living accommodations."

The screen showed four faces, with names beneath each. "The first face you see here is Professor James Moriarty." The Victorian Holmes looked grim.

I recognized "Moriarty" as the name Moran had given Sherlock for his employer. It had led to an unusually extensive "wall of crazy" as Sherlock attempted to deduce his methods and identity. Sherlock had called him a "Napolean of crime." If we had four of them, we were in trouble.

Moriarty had murdered Sherlock's girlfriend, Irene Adler. Was that also paralleled in the other universes? Were the other Sherlocks as emotionally devastated as my Sherlock? One had found and married Miss Russell, so presumably he at least had healed and moved on. But I remembered Sherlock's madness, his determination to kill, when he thought he had Irene's killer. Suddenly getting four Sherlocks to battle four Moriarties didn't seem like such a good idea. If they all broke...I tried to focus on the present. Presumably the Wisemagics knew about Sherlock's past.

I hoped.

"The second is Jim Moriarty, his parallel," said Noenna.

The Sherlock next to us jerked in surprise. "He's dead. He shot himself."

Noenna looked over at him. "And I believe you also killed yourself a few minutes later?" she asked archly. Sobering, she added, "We're not sure how he comes to be alive. There are a few options that we know of. While disconcerting for you, please understand me when I say that for him to have faked that suicide would be the most comforting of them."

John looked shaken. What had Moriarty done to make Sherlock attempt suicide? Or need to fake a suicide, I realized.

"Patricia Donleavy is also dead," spoke up Miss Russell.

"That is actually Helen Donleavy, her twin sister. They faked her death when they were 22, allowing them to live a double life for much of their criminal career." Noenna glanced around the room. "Donleavy was her mother's name, incidentally. Her father was also a Moriarty."

"And the final photo..."

I heard Sherlock's breath catch as I stared up at the screen, at the face labeled Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock's father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I obviously do not own Sherlock Holmes in any of his incarnations, I do own the Wisemagics. You'll be able to read more about them if my novel ever gets published.
> 
> "Mysteries of Bee-Keeping Explained" was published in 1853 by M. Quinby, in this universe at least. You can find it on Project Gutenberg.
> 
> I don't think we know Elementary!Sherlock's father's first name, but he apparently doesn't have a brother so it's not a bad guess. I'm likely to change it if we ever find out. This story takes place before he learns Irene's alive, by the way.
> 
> And the term "telepathy" was coined in 1882, according to Wikipedia. (The first Sherlock story was published in 1887.) Doyle was interested in such things and probably did know about it, but there's no reason to think Holmes would.


	4. Chapter 4

Noenna had suggested that the men pick nicknames to differentiate themselves when necessary. The associates were simple enough: Mary Russell and I were already different, so the John Watson next to us kept John and the Victorian Watson kept Dr. Watson.

That left the four Sherlocks, staring at each other.

Victorian Holmes was the first to speak. "I suppose if your wife didn't take your name, there's no reason you can't take hers," he said to Mary's Holmes. I think he meant to be sarcastic or insulting, but Holmes didn't even blink.

"I've used Mr. Russell before, when it was convenient. I can certainly do so now," he replied.

"Good," said the Sherlock next to us. "That takes care of you two, since we can call you Mr. Holmes," he added, addressing Victorian Holmes.

"Respect for our elders," added my Sherlock.

"Indeed. Shall we flip a coin to determine which of us retains Sherlock? Or have you a username in mind?"

"Or perhaps a collaborative joke would be appropriate. Havoc and Mayhem?" suggested my Sherlock.

"Lambent and Lucent?"

"Maverick and Iconoclast?"

"Shadow and Gloom?

"Dabbler and Dilettante?"

I exchanged a glance with John. "Havoc and Mayhem seems perfectly appropriate to me," he said.

The other Sherlock sighed. "Oh, very well. I'll be Havoc and you can be Mayhem."

"At least that's settled," I muttered. I wondered how anything was going to get done, if they were going to constantly distract themselves like this.

"Excellent," Noenna said, recalling our attention to the front of the room. "As I've covered all the salient points, I suggest you get started." She made a tossing gesture with her hand, and the screens in front of me were covered in photographs, maps, and text. "In front of you is all the information we have. The interface should be reasonably intuitive, and there is a tutorial that will play for those of you unaccustomed to computers, but please ask if you have any questions. You are welcome to have paper copies of things printed if that would be easier to work with, and of course we will do out best to provide any reference materials you need.

"The hallway behind you leads to your living quarters. We've provided food and clothing and done our best to make you comfortable.

"Tobacco use will be a particular problem, as Mr. Holmes and Mr. Russell both use it and both Sherlocks have quit. For now I think the best solution will be to ask that you indulge only in your bedrooms, where the smoke can be contained."

Mr. Holmes looked up sharply. "Why on earth would you give up tobacco?" he demanded.

"Apparently it's bad for you," replied the other Sherlock.

"Yes, it is," John added, "blackens your lungs, causes cancer, all sorts of lovely side effects as a matter of fact."

Mr. Holmes fell silent. Dr. Watson grunted.

Noenna continued, "Deduction is not a skill that collaborates easily. If you speak your deductions and discovered connections out loud, or write them down, the computer will record them and arrange them with others, so that you can examine each others' thoughts at your leisure. It isn't a perfect system, but I think it will work well.

"If you will excuse me, I'm afraid I have other duties to attend to. Good hunting, gentlemen." She turned and walked out the door.

We stared at each other in silence, and then the video tutorial started to play. I reached out towards the screen in front of me, and found that it really was intuitive. I touched the nearest stack of photos, and they fanned out so I could study them properly.

Without context, I couldn't make much sense of them. "Is there a way to arrange everything chronologically?" I murmured.

Immediately the photos flew away and the screen was filled with a timeline, with icons representing photos, videos, transcripts, and other data marked along the line. The first item - a batch of shipping receipts - was from six months ago.

"Excellent, Miss Watson," said Sherlock beside me. "You go through in chronological order, and I think I'll follow my father's movements." His voice wavered slightly.

I turned to look at him. His face was entirely impassive, but I knew he couldn't be indifferent, as much as he might like to pretend he was. "Sherlock, are you okay? Do you want to talk?" I asked softly.

"No, I do not wish to talk. I wish to work," he replied crisply. The computer had rearranged his screen to present only the things involving his father, and he opened what looked like a business letter. I supposed he'd never be willing to show weakness in front of the other Sherlocks.

I turned back to my shipping receipts. As I touched each item, it was copied to a list on the side of the screen. The items looked surprisingly random, but they were all addressed to James Moriarty, so presumably he had some use for them. A gross of hammers. Thirteen fishing rods made from a high-tech material I'd never heard of. Five dozen assorted romance novels. Three birdcages. Two hundred doors with inset force fields to screen out bugs. A dozen live pine trees.

I tapped my finger on the table, considering the list. There weren't any obvious connections. Could he be trying to discreetly gather materials for something, like Batman and Iron Man did in the movies? The hammers for the metal, the force field doors for some minor component, the novels for...paper, maybe? It seemed unlikely.

I asked the computer to get me a components list for the force field doors, but the long list of metals, polymers, and computer bits told me nothing. I used the stylus to scribble a note about the possibility and closed the group of receipts.

I looked over at Sherlock. He appeared to be studying some sort of financial account, drawing lines between numbers in different places. He didn't look up.

I looked around the room. The other Sherlock had managed to get the screen to project a three-dimensional image showing a multi-level city map and was speaking softly to John as he rotated it. John was sitting with his back to me. I wondered if his Sherlock was any better at explaining himself than mine.

The Russells were sitting quietly, each studying their screen and occasionally writing a note with their styluses. Victorian Holmes was flicking his screen quite quickly. I wondered what he was doing, since he probably couldn't absorb much information at that speed. Perhaps he was trying to get the overall picture before delving deeper. Dr. Watson was still playing with his screen and exclaiming over the things it could do.

There was an opening in the wall that hadn't been there before. I realized it must be the hallway Noenna had mentioned. Sherlock usually liked to be alone at this stage in a case. Perhaps he would appreciate it if I explored our living space for a bit?

I stood up. "I think I'll go look at the bedrooms," I announced.

"John, go with her," said the other Sherlock, not looking up from his map.

"I don't need assistance, thanks," I replied.

"Sherlock, I..." John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Go with her and sort out our rooms. Thank you."

John rolled his eyes, but got up and came with me to the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Havoc and Mayhem are inspired by my sister-in-law's taste in cat names. Because why not?


	5. Chapter 5

John and I walked down the hall and found ourselves in the entryway of a mansion. Not literally, of course - at least I don't think so - but that's what it looked like. A sweeping staircase of some golden wood led up to a balcony that ran around the perimeter of the walls, and I could just see four doorways leading from it. In front of us, tucked into the curve of the staircase, was a little zen garden with turquoise sand raked in beautiful patterns around interesting boulders and the fountain that bubbled in the middle. Beyond it I could see entrances to other rooms. Golden light filtered down from the ceiling.

We stared around us, and then each of us started towards a room that looked interesting. We promptly bumped into each other, leading to a certain amount of slight confusion as we sorted ourselves out, but then we toured the rooms together.

Noenna hadn't been kidding when she'd said they'd tried to provide nice accommodations. First there was a living room with a fireplace and comfortable couches. Next was a dining room, and when we crossed to the glass doors on the far wall, we found a little enclosed garden for when we wanted to eat outside. I couldn't see anything beyond the garden, but the walls were covered in climbing vines with beautiful flowers, and tiny lizards scuttled away when I approached the table there. There wasn't a kitchen, but when I approached the screen set into one wall it displayed an extensive menu. The next room appeared to be a game room. It had tables for pool, billiards, and air hockey, as well as a range of video game equipment.

"I bet Sherlock is killer at pool," I commented, looking around.

"He is. At least, mine is," John responded. "I'm not bad myself, I've played a bit. You?"

"Once or twice, in college. I was okay. Wouldn't mind trying again." I looked around. "I bet I can whip your butt at air hockey, though."

He smiled slightly and ducked his head. "We'll have to see, won't we?"

The last room was a gym, with weights and exercise machines. Beyond the machines I saw a doorway marked "Sauna" and a hot tub. Bliss. Did I have a bathing suit?

"Looks like a shooting range through here," John commented. He'd noticed another door and was peering through the window. "That'll be handy. Do you shoot?"

"No. It's on Sherlock's list of things for me to learn. Just after horseback riding, I believe," I said.

John grinned. "That sounds like a Sherlock."

"Do you shoot?" I asked. I'd heard British police didn't use guns.

He nodded. "I was in Afghanistan."

"Oh." I wasn't sure whether to ask more. He didn't look troubled by memories or PTSD, but that didn't mean there was no trauma. Probably wiser not to push.

"Let's look upstairs," he suggested.

We climbed the stairs. The doorways were labeled with nameplates: Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, Sherlock and Mary Holmes-Russell, Mayhem!Sherlock and Joan Watson, and Havoc!Sherlock and John Watson. I pushed open the door to ours, with John looking over my shoulder.

The room was white, with a white table and two chairs. It looked surprisingly empty, given the beautiful decor below. The far wall had two doors, so I walked in and pushed one open. It was a bedroom, with a small bathroom attached. The bed was also plain and white, and the closet was full of clothing. The clothes were unfamiliar t-shirts and sweaters and comfortable-looking jeans, but they all seemed like things Sherlock would wear. I went back out and examined my room. Sure enough, the I had also been provided with a brand new wardrobe. Some of the tops were really cute, too, and I couldn't wait to try on the subtly shimmery charcoal pumps. I investigated a bit further and discovered underwear and bras, workout clothes, and even a bathing suit.

I went back to the front room and found that John was still there, leaning on the doorframe and looking around.

"They provided clothes for us," I told him. "I'm not sure whether to be glad or creeped out."

He smiled. "They plucked us all off the street and brought us here. Slightly creepy is probably par for the course."

"True." I looked around. "This is awfully...white," I commented.

A glowing cube appeared in the air over the table. "What color would you like?" asked a voice.

I blinked. "Excuse me?" I ventured.

"This is the voice of the computer," it said. "I take vocal commands in most areas of the building. If you tell me what colors and furnishings you would like, I can have it implemented in the next few hours."

"Oh. Okay, that sounds nice." I moved closer to the glowing cube, and realized it was a miniature image of the room I was standing in. I heard John leave the doorway and walk down the hall.

The computer obligingly pulled up paint chips and furniture catalogs, and I chose a golden-brown color for our sitting room, with brown leather chairs and couch and a nice big table. I decided on a cool gray-blue for my bedroom walls, and asked for dark blue blankets, and then told the computer to give Sherlock's room the same things unless he said otherwise. It would be better than plain white.

I wandered back out, and met John in the hall. "The other suites are all the same," he said, "except for the Russell one, which just has one bedroom."

"It's so weird to imagine a Sherlock being married," I said.

"Yes it is," he replied, taking a breath.

Something occurred to me. "Or are you and Sherlock...?"

"No, that's not a thing. You may be the only one in the universe who is willing to believe we're not sleeping together."

I smiled. "You get that often, I guess."

"All the time. It's ruined my chances with more than one girl. I'm pretty sure Sherlock is asexual, although-" he broke off, then continued, "What about you and your Sherlock?"

I shook my head. "Not interested. At least, I'm not interested in him, and I doubt he is in me. He hires the occasional hooker." I started down the stairs, and he followed me.

As we walked towards the door that led back to the workroom, we could dimly hear arguing voices. "Perhaps they've found something useful," John said, opening the door.

"Perhaps," I replied, "or perhaps they've discovered they use different systems to organize their libraries."


	6. Chapter 6

As it turned out, we were both wrong. Sherlock had started his traditional wall of crazy. Photos, slips of paper, and bits of string were pinned to the wall behind our seats. It was still in its early stages: if this had been a normal case, I'd expect about two more layers of evidence before he solved the case. Early or not, the other Sherlock didn't like it.

"...a complete waste of time, energy, and wall space. The mind is the perfect tool for deduction, we need no other!" he was shouting as we came in.

The Sherlocks were on their feet, facing each other. The Victorian Holmes and Watson were watching them - Holmes indignantly, Watson indulgently. Mr. Russell was mostly looking at the screen in front of him but looking up fairly often, and Mary Russell was serenely ignoring them.

"Don't be ridiculous. By laying my thoughts out in this way I have a record of my deductions and can use my mental capacity for thought more efficiently," my Sherlock snapped back.

"We have a computer to do that for us, might I remind you. Or perhaps you simply lack the capacity to keep up, hence the need for efficiency," said the other Sherlock.

"But this way the layout is mine, and meshes exactly with my way of thinking," my Sherlock replied.

"Really, gentlemen, I think -" started the Victorian Holmes.

"Oh, shut up!" said both Sherlocks in unison.

"I really don't see what it matters, Sherlock," John said. "It's not as if he's using anything of yours."

"Of course it matters, John, don't be ridiculous. The mind is capable of perfection and the man doesn't even try," Sherlock replied irritably.

"The goal is to solve the case, not achieve perfection," my Sherlock pointed out. "I'll work this case as I like, thank you very much. It has been my experience that having a tangible display elicits a certain creativity that is frequently useful."

"Nonsense," said the other Sherlock, "it's entirely your imagination, there can't possibly be a difference."

"Well, there might be," said Mr. Russell. Both Sherlocks paused and turned to look at him.

"I keep a number of bolt-holes in London, as I imagine you do. I ran an experiment some time ago on the value of having a piece of artwork and slightly nicer furnishings in one several years ago. While I cannot say it made a difference to my deductive skills, I was certainly calmer and more energetic after a stay in that one." He smiled slightly. "There is always a tendency to underestimate our senses, you know."

I saw Mary smile to herself, but she didn't look up.

The other Sherlock stared at Mr. Russell. "I suppose that's possible. In any case, I have no intention of wasting further time on this." He sat down and turned back to the three-dimensional planets projected above his workspace. "John, I may need you to go examine things in person," he said over his shoulder.

My Sherlock stared at him, and then turned back to me. "Miss Watson. As I think you noticed, our villains have been ordering romance novels."

"Among other things," I said.

"True, but the novels seem especially inexplicable. We have concluded that you are the most logical person to analyse them and determine their use."

"I still think they are merely a blind," said the other Sherlock.

Mary looked up. "If the first order of five hundred were all, I might agree. But he's ordered over a million of them in total. That's not just a blind."

"...Is this because I'm female?" I asked indignantly.

"No, of course not. Well, I suppose in part. It's because you have more familiarity with the genre than anyone else here," he explained.

I rolled my eyes. He was probably right; I hadn't read many romances, but I had read a few. In college I even spent a few evenings going through cheap romance novels with friends, reading the silliest bits aloud. "Fine. What do you want?"

"We have requested copies of a random selection of the titles ordered. How you conduct your analysis is up to you, but please report on any trends or incongruities you order," Sherlock said.

"And until they get here?" I asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Whatever you like. The computer just uncovered a series of false identities and travel plans from the past year or so, you could look at those."

"Unnecessary," said the other Sherlock. "I'm looking at that."

"Oh." Sherlock looked uncertain. "Perhaps known associates, then?

"That seems reasonable." I sat down, and found that the computer was already displaying lists of people, categorized by which Moriarty they worked for and where they'd been seen. "What are you looking at?" I asked, more softly.

"Some of my father's recent business practices. Apparently he's invested heavily in genetic engineering recently, and I suspect that may be related to his current activities. The Wisemagics have an impressive amount of access to his business network and documents. I'm not certain I could have accessed some of this," he said, pinning another diagram to his wall.

I turned back to the computer screen in front of me. Each of the villains had brought a couple of people to meet the others. I noticed two of them were named Sebastian Moran: one was the Moran that Sherlock had nearly killed, and one was unfamiliar to me, from the other Sherlock's universe. The other Sherlock's Moriarty had also brought a physicist, which seemed odd. Physicists can design weapons, though, so perhaps it made sense. Even odder was the female religious leader that Helen Donleavy had brought. She was an elegant woman, but I couldn't imagine what use they would have for her.

And then there were the goons, hired thugs from a dozen different planets. The Wisemagics knew what orders had been given to the thugs, but it was rarely anything useful. Attending public events, guarding people, buying things. Mr. Russell was going through the endless lists of things they had bought, looking for patterns and connections. It didn't look like he'd learned anything useful yet.

The door opened, and a man came in and dropped a pile of books in front of me. The top one had a picture of a young woman with an improbable amount of cleavage, holding a white rose and standing it front of a castle.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A who's who, for anyone having trouble keeping track:
> 
> The narrator is Miss Joan Watson, of Elementary. Her Sherlock will occasionally be called Mayhem!Sherlock when the computer has to differentiate, or just Mayhem by the other Sherlocks.
> 
> Havoc!Sherlock, Havoc, and "the other Sherlock" are Sherlock from BBC's Sherlock. His John gets called John. His Moriarty will get called Jim rather than James.
> 
> Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are the originals from Doyle's stories.
> 
> And Sherlock Holmes (also called Sherlock Russell and Mr. Russell) and Mary Russell are from the Mary Russell books by Laurie R. King.

I flipped through the stack of novels. They all looked perfectly normal, with cliched cover illustrations and curly script and overly flowery character names. I couldn't imagine them being the cornerstone of some nefarious plot. But it seemed they were.

...Or were they? I looked up at the others. "Do we actually know that these guys are planning something?" I asked.

There was silence for a minute.

"I admit I haven't seen direct evidence of a plot," began Mr. Russell.

"Four genius-level criminals are meeting on a regular basis. I doubt they're just drinking tea," said the other Sherlock.

My Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm not certain my father is a criminal," he muttered to me. "A bastard, yes, but he does his dirty work without breaking the law."

"Even if they hadn't intended anything criminal to start with, I expect they are now," said John, sorting photos on the screen in front of him. He'd taken over the files on recent associates.

"οὗ γάρ εἰσιν δύο ἢ τρεῖς συνηγμένοι εἰς τὸ ἐμὸν ὄνομα," murmured Mary, apparently to herself. We all stared at her.

She looked up and cleared her throat. "It's from the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 18, verse 20. 'Where two or more are gathered in my name...'" she translated. We continued to stare at her.

She shrugged. "It's about the authority of community," she explained. "It seemed relevant." She went back to her research.

I looked at Sherlock and shrugged. I turned back to my books.

I decided I would have to read at least one of them all the way through, looking for anomalies or incongruities. If I didn't find anything obvious in the first book or two, perhaps I could skim the others.

I picked up the first one and sat back to read it. The room fell quiet. Sherlock was paging through some financial statement, the other Sherlock had pulled up glowing three-dimensional images of planets. The others were studying their screens intently, except for Dr. Watson.

After a few pages, Dr. Watson's fidgeting began to be irritating. He had something on the screen in front of him, but he seemed to be spending more time looking at his watch or playing with the chain than actually researching. He also kept pulling his pipe out of his pocket and reaching for his tobacco before remembering that he'd been asked to confine tobacco use to his bedroom. He glanced longingly at the hallway.

I was feeling rather hungry, and I was certain that the detectives would all need to be bullied into eating. If I didn't take the initiative to announce lunch, it was quite possible that no one else would.

I stood up. "I think we should stop and eat some lunch," I said.

They looked up with varying expressions - indignation, relief, even confusion. The other Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up.

"Lunch?" asked Mr. Holmes. He sounded honestly confused.

"Yeah. Lunch," I replied, uncertain what to say. I had expected him to object, but he was acting as if he'd never heard the word before. "You know, something to eat?" I added.

"A luncheon?" asked Mary. She smiled at me. "I think the word must be a newer one."

"Really?" I asked. It hadn't occurred to me that "lunch" was a modern word. "Yes, I guess so. The meal in the middle of the day."

Dr. Watson stood up quickly and began to make for the door. The others followed suit.

* * *

After lunch I took my novels out to the enclosed garden to read. If I had to read terrible literature, I might as well do so in comfort.

And the literature was terrible. I'm not normally very picky, but the plot was incredibly predictable, the characters were dull, and the editing was so bad that I found it hard to ignore the frequent typos and mistakes. I highlighted them in case there was a pattern and plowed through.

After an hour or so, Noenna showed up. "May I interrupt you?" she asked.

"Please do," I said, taking my feet off the table and sitting up. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh don't worry, nothing is wrong. I just wanted to talk to you." She sat down and asked the computer for a drink. A tall pick glass appeared in front of her.

"I almost feel I owe you an apology," she said, "for dragging you and Sherlock into this. Your Sherlock is easily the most emotionally fragile of the four, and hunting his father is undoubtedly stressful for him."

I smiled wryly. "It is, but he'd be the first to insist on participating."

She nodded. "Yes, I thought he would, which was my main reason for going ahead with it."

"And perhaps it will be helpful," I added. "Confronting issues, interacting with others..."

"Perhaps it will. I'm very interested to see how the dynamics play out. But we will see." She shifted in her chair and took a sip of her drink. "To return to the topic of you and Sherlock, I also wanted to offer to arrange for you to see a therapist while you are here, if you feel you could use the extra support. We have extensive therapeutic resources here, and I have no desire to see you get burned out."

I considered. I hadn't seen a therapist in a while, but with Sherlock under additional stress it might be wise to have someone to talk to. "That might make sense," I said. "I don't feel the need at the moment, but perhaps I could see someone now, so that a relationship is established if the situation gets more stressful?"

She nodded. "Of course. I'd be happy to arrange that. Do you have any preferences - gender, style, time of day?"

I shrugged. "I've only had a couple of therapists before. They were both female, but I don't think it matters much as long as they're practical and down to earth and not too pushy. And afternoons are probably better. I'm not a morning person."

She smiled back and stood to leave. "Understandable. I'll set something up for tomorrow afternoon, then."

I turned back to my book. The heroine was whining about how nobody understood her. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found the Greek for Matthew 18:20 online. I have no idea how it's pronounced, but Mary would, since she studied theology. I mostly included that bit because I love it when the name of a work is in the work.


	8. Chapter 8

I managed to finish the first novel shortly before it was time for dinner. We'd agreed on a schedule for meals during lunch, and I'd asked the computer to announce mealtimes to us, so I wouldn't have to do so.

I stood up and stretched. There was time to start the next novel before dinner, if I wanted to, but the others didn't look any more appealing than the first one. The first had ended exactly as I'd predicted it would, without a single line that surprised me or seemed out of place. Eager for an alternative to more of that reading, I asked the computer what everyone else was working on.

The summary of the research and results was interesting, but there didn't seem to be anything conclusive. Sherlock was examining his father's recent activities, which included the acquisition of a genetic research lab, the purchase of a small media company, another lab researching resinous compounds, several stock market deals, and reading the notes kept by his son's various therapists and doctors during his rehab and recovery. He shouldn't have had access to the latter at all, since I couldn't imagine Sherlock releasing them to him, but he'd managed to acquire them anyway. Sherlock wasn't sure which of these might be related to the crime they were concerned with, but he thought the genetics research was probably relevant. Mycroft Holmes had never showed interest in genetics before.

Unless...The computer added a muttered comment that I doubted Sherlock had meant to be recorded. "Probably decided to start from scratch." The phrase reminded me of something Sherlock had said after meeting the FBI profiler who had called him "The Deductionist." Sherlock had spent that week wondering if he was able to change his fate or if his end was encoded in his DNA at conception. Could Mycroft Holmes be looking at his son's struggles with addiction with a view towards studying his genetic destiny? I hoped not.

I turned away from that possibility, unwilling to deal with it. The other Sherlock had been examining the recent travels of Professor Moriarty. He'd used a variety of false identities and chartered private spaceships to take him to a wide range of planets in a couple different universes. They all appeared to be "backwater" planets, with little or no contact with spacefaring civilizations, and they were all inhabited by humans or near-humans. Moriarty had visited each system and spent a few days on each one, usually spending most of his time in the main library or its local equivalent, reading about its culture and history. I was amused to note that Sherlock had clearly spent at least as much time investigating the structure of the Wisemagic system for classifying planets as he had in actual research.

John was was attempting to create an org chart for the Moriarties and their associates. The religious leader Helen Donleavy had conscripted was currently working with Jim Moriarty, which seemed a bit odd.

Miss Russell had been reading about advanced maths, apparently with the aim of understanding a specific paper that Moriarty had repeatedly accessed. Her husband seemed to be tracing how Professor Moriarty had contacted the others. He was spending quite a lot of time viewing the limited supply of videos of their meetings.

And Mr. Holmes was attempting to trace how Moriarty had gotten the ability to travel to other universes in the first place. He was having pretty good success with it: it looked like one of the assassins who reported to him had stumbled across a broken transporter unit and Moriarty had managed to repair it.

Dr. Watson wasn't listed as having done anything at all, which seemed odd. I was about to ask the computer about that when the dinner announcement came.

* * *

A variety of dishes had appeared on the sideboard in the dining room, and the others trooped in as I entered. I collected a plate and loaded it with salad and roast chicken and an unfamiliar pinkish-gray vegetable that turned out to be delicious.

As the others sat down, I realized that Sherlock was rigid with hostility, and several of the others were very tense. After my Sherlock muttered something about objectively analyzing the value of the food and the other Sherlock remarked to the room in general that finding the truth was more important than individual tastes, I leaned over and asked John what I'd missed.

"Sherlock said that your Sherlock is emotionally compromised," John whispered back.

"Please tell me you're kidding," I said. He shook his head grimly.

I sat back. Sherlock was stressed and more emotionally involved than I liked to see, of course, but having decided on a course of action he would not tolerate compromise or failure. Being accused of weakness, especially from one of the few men who was his intellectual equal, would affect him greatly. Even if he wasn't emotionally compromised before this accusation, he might be now.

I'd have to talk to him. Not that there was much I could say that he'd listen to, but he was starting to trust me and maybe I could get him to open up a bit. I rather wished he wasn't an addict, since a drink or two might have helped. In any case, there was nothing I could say or do at the dinner table, with everybody watching.

I turned to Mary Russell, who was sitting next to me. If I was stuck here for a while, I might as well get to know the only other woman. "So, what have you been up to?" I asked.

She stared blankly at me. "I beg your pardon?" she asked.

Language differences again. "What research have you been doing?" I said.

She smiled. "Oh. I noticed Professor Moriarty had shown a great deal of interest in the academic papers of a Dr. Ianesqu, a temporal physicist and mathematician on the planet Kenta. I studied mathematics at Oxford, but of course there has been quite a bit of progress between the civilizations, so I'm attempting to learn the necessary numerical theory to understand Dr. Ianesqu's work. It's the first time my maths degree has been useful for a case; my husband is quite annoyed that he won't be able to criticize my studies in the future." Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

"He doesn't approve of math?" I asked.

"I studied mathematics and theology, and he doesn't approve of either. I've known him to conjure cases out of thin air if he thinks I'm spending too much time on them," she said.

I laughed. "I'm thinking of trying out that hot tub later on," I said. "Do you want to join me?"

"Hot tub?" she asked.

I suppose they didn't have those either. "It's like a very big bathtub," I explained, "with seats in it, so that people can sit and enjoy the warm water. Sometimes there's jets - devices that move the water or create bubbles."

"It sounds...fascinating." She sounded more puzzled than enthusiastic.

"It's actually very pleasant," I said.

"I suppose one wears bathing garments for this?" she asked.

"Usually. There was a bathing suit included in the clothes they left for me, so I'm guessing there's one for you as well."

"Oh." She looked embarrassed. "I..." she broke off.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

She looked up at me and took a deep breath. "I suppose if anyone were likely to understand, it would be someone else who works with a Holmes," she said. "I have a lot of scars on my shoulders. I don't usually wear bathing garments or other clothes that let them show."

"Oh. Well, I don't mind, and no one else is likely to come in. And you could wear a shirt over the bathing suit, if you wanted," I suggested.

She smiled. "That might be easier. I'd like to finish the paper I was reading, but after that I'd love to try this hot tub with you."


	9. Chapter 9

I hate the dilemma of what to wear on the way to the pool in a public space. If you wear your bathing suit and a towel, you feel underdressed in the hall. If you wear street clothes over your suit, you have to find somewhere to put them down once you get there, and of course you have to either bring underwear, or go without, or pull your clothes over a wet suit on the way back. And so on.

I had resigned myself to wearing shorts and a t-shirt, in deference to the delicate sensibilities of Dr. Watson, when I noticed a beautiful batik sarong in the back of the closet. I looped it around my waist and tied the ends behind my neck, and decided Dr. Watson would have to deal. It was far too lovely to leave behind.

I pinned my hair up, grabbed the towel provided, and went downstairs. I couldn't resist peeking into the lounge, where Dr. Watson had said he had been undertaking a course of reading suggested by the computer to familiarize himself with our culture. I found him deeply immersed in a Tom Clancy novel, reading so intently that he didn't even look up when I snorted gently and chuckled to myself.

Mary hadn't arrived at the hot tub yet, but there was no reason not to get in. I took off the sarong and slipped in to the steaming water.

I relaxed, closing my eyes and letting the heat penetrate. Most hot tubs smell of chlorine, but this one smelled of ylang ylang and lavender instead.

When I opened my eyes, I discovered that a computer panel had lit up next to the hot tub. One section offered controls for bubbles and jets, one offered a selection of music, and one listed the water temperature, my core body temperature, and how long I had been in the hot tub. None of the music selections were familiar, so I requested some soft jazz, and let the computer pick for me.

"Fascinating. I just walk down these stairs?" asked Mary, behind me. She was wearing a navy blue short-skirted bathing suit with a big white t-shirt over it, and she stood peering uncertainly at the water.

"Yup. Do you need a hand?" I asked.

"No, I'm just unaccustomed to steps that are underwater," she replied. She gripped the handrail and slowly stepped down. She made her way to one of the seats and allowed herself to relax.

"It really is very pleasant," she commented, with her eyes still closed. She opened her eyes. "I think you said there were bubbles?"

"I was just looking at them," I said, showing her the control panel. The section on the right now listed her core body temperature as well as mine. "Do you want to try them?" I asked.

"I might as well try the full experience," she said, poking at a button. The water jets roared to life, and we sat back to enjoy them. Each seat had a least a dozen tiny jets, instead of the two or three big jets you usually get, and when I sat down they moved to target the major muscle groups.

I watched her for a while, uncertain what to talk about. "So, you married a Sherlock," I finally said, "How..."

"How on earth did that happen?" she suggested, amused.

I grinned sheepishly. "Pretty much."

She smiled. "I was only fifteen when we met, and I think he forgot I was female for the first few years. He calls me 'Russell,' you know. Not Mary. The attraction was there, but while I was underage it was...safe, I would guess. Then once I got older we were so much a part of each other that he couldn't fight it."

"I'm guessing he tried to," I said.

She laughed. "We both did, really. We both knew it was there, but we're such stubborn, fiercely independent people...and we were scared, I think, of what it would do to us. But it didn't.

"We're not like most couples, you know. Even now. There's plenty of people who aren't sure whether I'm a man or a woman, and whether we're married or roommates or none of those. But it doesn't matter."

I nodded. "Sherlock - my Sherlock - mostly just has...physical liaisons, I guess. Except for Irene Adler, who I never knew. She...well, he won't talk about her. I know he was in love with her, and she died. That's when he fell into harder drugs."

Mary frowned. "I think there was an Irene Adler in our world. Holmes mentioned her once. But she was nothing to him - just a blackmailer he stopped. I know he thought her clever, but there was no relationship."

"Just as well," I said.

We were silent for a while. Mary turned back to the control panel and turned on the bubbles, and we listened to them fizz for a while. The bubbles kept making her t-shirt balloon up, and after pushing it down the first few times she got frustrated and took it off.

I tried not to stare, but she did have a lot of scarring. One patch looked like a bullet wound, and there were a number of cuts and slashes.

"How is your research going?" I asked, partly to distract myself.

"Well, I think," she replied. "I'm getting closer to the mathematics I need. If I am reading it correctly, Dr. Ianesqu designed a device that could, in theory, affect the course of time. He seemed to think he could make a moment happen twice."

"So...you could make a different decision? Change the past?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No, it's more limited than that. It - if I'm reading it right, and as I said I don't fully understand it yet - it makes a duplicate of everything in the affected area. Most of them go away when it stops, but if there's a 'life inflection point' then the duplicate might survive."

"What's a life inflection point?" I asked.

She grimaced. "I haven't worked that out yet. And no one has ever built one, as far as we know. It would have to be huge, and it requires tremendous amounts of energy, and a lot of the parts are awfully fragile. But Moriarty read it multiple times, and he isn't a man who wastes time."


	10. Chapter 10

Mary and I parted in the foyer. She went to collect her husband and force him to rest. I wished I could do the same for Sherlock, but our partnership did not allow me that kind of authority. I went up to our suite to wait for him instead.

The rooms had been repainted and the new furniture was in place. Our new sofa was every bit as comfortable as it had looked in the pictures.

I asked the computer to display the current research, and a brilliant cloud of interlinked light appeared in front of me. I had seen the computer assembling this three-dimensional display of evidence, deductions, and research earlier, but it had gotten much more complicated while I'd been reading today.

I touched a few items. A report on the finances of some shell company. Another report on the chemical structure of pine tree resin. A treatise on the role of women in the home, written in 1798. A piece of music Jim Moriarty had listened to during dinner. The results of a clinical trial of a drug I didn't recognize, from a planet that wasn't Earth. A compiled list of everything Moriarty had ordered.

Curious, I opened the list. I had started it with that early batch of shipping receipts, but it had gotten much, much longer. The hammers were now just one of a wide range of hand tools that he'd ordered, along with nails and screws and other building supplies. Video surveillance of some of them men hired by Moriarty showed them carrying toolboxes that probably contained those tools, but they didn't seem to be doing anything with them. Each of them had taken a toolbox home and left it there, while they went about their daily activities. Admittedly those daily activities were far from innocent, since most of them were mercenaries or enforcers for organized crime, but there was no indication that they were following instructions from Moriarty.

I kept scrolling though the list of purchases. Chemicals I didn't recognize. Sheets of neodymium-infused glass. Fifteen assorted laptop computers. Several custom-made printed circuit boards. Two lovebirds and a parakeet, which were presumably living in the birdcages he'd bought earlier.

I heard heavy footsteps in the hall outside, and then Sherlock came in and collapsed onto the armchair without looking at me. He sat there a minute, staring into space, before jerking himself up and walking over to the table, where he demanded a cup of tea. A teapot and two mugs appeared on the table.

I watched him pour tea for himself, and then got up and filled the other mug. I sat down and sipped quietly, watching him.

"I suppose you wish to have some sort of talk," he said finally.

"I just want to make sure you're all right," I said softly.

"I am all right," he said, carefully enunciating each word.

I smiled wryly. "Sherlock, John told me what the other Sherlock said. It can't be pleasant to be criticized by someone...someone like him."

"It is never pleasant to be criticized," he said.

"I know that, but you ignore criticism from most people. Half the time you were trying to annoy them in the first place. The other Sherlocks...you can't ignore them the same way."

"I don't see that it matters," said Sherlock, still staring into space.

"He said you were emotionally compromised, Sherlock. You must be upset," I said.

"He was right."

That stopped me. Sherlock didn't have the despairing look I would expect with an admission of failure. "He was?" I asked.

"Rather, he was right to raise the possibility. I am pursuing my own father. But whatever my emotions about the subject may be, they are irrelevant. I have trained my mind to perform the tasks I set for it. I have chosen to do my job and ignore my emotions. This is my choice."

"...and is it working?" I asked softly.

He was silent for a long time. I drank my tea, watching him. Finally he looked at me, and for a minute I did see the aching despair there. "I don't know," he whispered.

I wanted to give him a hug, but I didn't think he'd accept it. I looked at the mug in my hands. It was a beautiful teal blue, with lacy gold patterns tracing across the sides.

"What is my future, Watson?" he asked quietly. "In that room...I see the options. With my background, with my father..." he trailed off, staring into space again.

"They are options, Sherlock, just as you said. Choices. You still have a choice."

"What if I don't? What if my genes, my childhood...Mr. Holmes has ossified, you know. He's so bound by his own ways of thinking that he contributes very little. I wonder..."

"You don't have to do that, Sherlock. You can choose to stay flexible, explore new things. You've already done so, by partnering with me."

"I could, yes. But what then? Would I always be seeking the next experience?

"They've told me about the other Mycrofts. Their brothers, only I'm an only child. As brilliant as they are, working for the government, pulling the strings. Havoc says his brother has a giant power complex, has to control everything.

"What if that's encoded into me as well? What if the reason I never had a brother is that I have his traits too? If I stay flexible...will I also stay right?"

I reached over and put my hand on his wrist. "You will make your own choices, Sherlock. You don't have to isolate yourself. I'll be with you."

He pulled his hand away and stood up. "We agreed that some sort of regular schedule would be necessary. Which room is mine?"

I pointed. "That one. The computer will redecorate for you if you want. There's clothes in the closet."

"Very well. Thank you." He walked into his room and shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not an angst-lover, but a little is generally necessary for characters to develop. So there has to be some. And remember that Havoc!Sherlock is dealing with his own issues - none of these men are very reliable sources of information about themselves.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning I slept in, which was simply luxurious. Sherlock never lets me sleep late during a big case - unless he's finally collapsed from exhaustion, of course, but when that happens I feel the need to get up and check on him. Besides, it's fun to catch him before he has a chance to clean up the evidence of his sleep-deprivation-induced insanity. He's quite endearing when he's fast asleep, surrounded by dinosaurs or snowball fort plans or whatever else he was doing when he finally fell asleep.

But finally I got up and showered and dressed. The dining room was empty, but when I walked in a setting appeared on the table. Breakfast was crisp little pancakes with an oozing golden syrup inside. The syrup ran over my fingers with each bite, and there didn't seem to be any way to eat them tidily, but they were delicious.

While I ate I checked up on the progress of the case. Professor Moriarty was still visiting planets, but the other Sherlock had concluded that he had stopped visiting feudal societies and was focusing on planets with either urban societies with closely-packed public transportation, or very wealthy societies with a high degree of robotic usage. He was still looking for other commonalities. Mr. Russell was tracing the funding of Jim Moriarty's previous criminal activities, presumably with the intention of comparing it with his current bank accounts (apparently the Wisemagics maintained access to a number of financial institutions), and Mary was comparing the theoretical plans for the time device to some of the components of the force field doors Moriarty had purchased.

Finally there was nothing to do but collect my stack of novels and keep going. I was skimming now, making notes about their plots. Not that there was much plot. A fiery-haired beauty refuses the marriage her father arranged and falls in love with the mysterious blacksmith instead. A free-spirited damsel falls in love with the duke who bought her. A woman too intelligent to be happy as a serving-maid finds a life and a love for herself. And so on.

I wasn't terribly hungry by lunchtime, but I was bored enough to take the break. Mary hadn't come in when I entered the dining room, but I sat next to her husband.

"I saw you were examining Jim Moriarty's financials," I commented to him, after we'd made ourselves sandwiches from the array of breads, meats, and condiments that had appeared. I took a bite of the roasted carrots that were meant to accompany them. They weren't carrots after all - they had a silverish center, and the flavor was mild and slightly salty.

"He's an intelligent man, but he has his habits," Mr. Russell replied.

I waited quietly. I got the feeling Mr. Russell wasn't somebody who liked being asked lots of questions.

"Among them is a tendency to hire multiple assassins - far more than would be necessary, I believe - and have them surround the most delicate parts and the most central people of his operation. He has a flair for the dramatic, and he likes to be in control at all times. But it is a weakness," he said.

"You can identify the assassins and follow their movements," I said.

He nodded. "Exactly. And the assassins are not as convinced as the Moriarties are of the need to avoid cameras. Useful."

"Can you reliably tell who is an assassin and who is just running errands?" I asked.

He just looked at me. Obviously I was supposed to know the answer to that one. I thought about it.

"I imagine we can get their criminal records," I speculated, "and check what equipment they carry."

"And the amounts are different," he said sternly. I wasn't making much headway with him. "The equipment is actually less helpful than it might be; Jim Moriarty prefers men who are as skilled with a knife as with a rifle."

"Of course," I said.

Mr. Russell took another bite of his sandwich. For a minute I thought he was going to ignore me, but he continued, "One must also look at the pattern of the man. Humans are not the same. We take many forms and many types, and a skilled master knows how to use each type he finds. The Moriarties are skilled masters, and can be assumed to make the best use of each of their workers. Helen Donleavy will not hire a timid man to perpetuate a fraud, or a heavy-handed man, or an angry one. She finds the man who is confident and intelligent and perceptive for that work. Similarly, if Jim Moriarty hires a man who takes pleasure in killing, we know he will not be given the same role as a man who takes pleasure only in money, and kills to achieve it. Moriarty has hired both, and therefore has different uses in mind.

"The man who takes pleasure in killing will not be satisfied unless permitted to kill. He will be used to dominate, to threaten. The man who is motivated entirely by money cares not who or how he kills, as long as he is paid. He will be used as a failsafe: he follows people near the nexus of the operation, with orders to watch and keep his mouth shut and be ready to kill if necessary. We track the former to know who Jim Moriarty wishes to control, and the latter to know who is entrusted with the most sensitive information and goals."

"What about people he actually trusts?" I asked, when Mr. Russell didn't seem to have anything more to say.

He smiled slightly. "A man like Jim Moriarty does not trust anyone. The local police once imprisoned Sebastian Moran, his lover and chief lieutenant, and while they were not able to hold him they did discover tracking devices on his person and in his...cellphone? Is that correct?"

"It is," I said. "Do you need me to explain those?"

He hesitated, and then answered, "Please do. I have read a description of the technology, but that does not tell me how people use them, how they interact with them."

I spent the rest of the meal attempting to explain the intricacies of cellphone etiquette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a break, now there's more. I don't think I'm getting Mr. Russell quite right, but that was still fun to write so I don't mind. More coming soon.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by a wide variety of online name and anagram generators. A good drug name is hard to find.

After lunch I read a little more, and then decided to take another look at the people hired by the Moriarties, to see if I could find any of the patterns suggested by Mr. Russell. At first the list was bewildering, but I started having the computer sort them by their criminal records, and there seemed to be some patterns then.

In particular, Helen Donleavy was hiring men with records of petty theft, substance abuse, assault, and not much else. She wasn't paying them much, either. I asked the computer to translate their payments into American dollars, and she was only giving them the equivalent of twenty-five dollars a week to await her orders, with the promise of just over a thousand dollars after they completed the tasks she had planned.

This was ludicrous. The Moriarties were hiring master thieves and assassins and con artists and art forgers, and paying them tens of thousands of dollars. Mycroft Holmes had hired one Smak Terrence, who was an architect by day and a sneak thief by night, and had promised him the equivalent of just under a million dollars. Helen Donleavy had a few master criminals as well, of course, but what did she want with all this dumb muscle?

I decided to head down to the main workroom to see if Mr. Russell had any idea why she might want them.

The workroom had been redecorated since the last time I'd visited. The lights weren't as harsh any more. Several framed charcoal sketches of nudes hung on the walls, alternating with linen panels that added some softness and texture. Someone - probably one of the Russells - had finally gotten tired of the laboratory feeling.

I was about to walk over to Mr. Russell when I noticed Sherlock was excitedly pacing back and forth, gesturing at empty air. I headed over towards him.

He looked up as I approached. "Miss Watson! The half-life of cocaine is one hour, correct?"

"About an hour. It varies with the administration route," I answered.

"Exactly! Therefore these tests," he said, scrabbling among the papers he'd had printed and handing one to me, "are NOT of cocaine."

I looked at the notes in front of me. It looked like part of Mycroft Holmes' research into his son's addiction, but Sherlock was right: the times given could not possibly result from cocaine. Or from heroin, for that matter.

I looked up. "What does that tell us?"

"I don't know yet. There was something else I saw and I am trying to remember it. It was on the screen...there," he said, gesturing vaguely to one corner of the screen in front of him. "The other items were a shipping notice for a case of wine, a report on fluorescing orange bananas..." his voice trailed off and he turned back to the computer, typing rapidly.

The other Sherlocks were watching us now, and I was pretty sure John was trying not to laugh. He saw me look at him, and winked.

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaimed, stepping back to admire the document that had come up on the screen. I skimmed it over his shoulder. It was disguised as a receipt for a custom suit, but he started rearranging the words on the screen and it became a formula for a drug called Motrubaphin.

"What is it?" I asked.

Sherlock pointed to the address stamped on the paper I held in my hands. "Bphuti Manor," he said. "It's an anagram of Motrubaphin. I've seen that address everywhere in his papers on drug reports - he's been using it to identify the data on a new drug."

"So what does Motrubaphin do?" I asked.

"It..." he started flicking through the documents on the screen, looking for information. "It's odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid..."

"...and is among the most deadly poisons known to man?" I smirked at him.

He looked up at me briefly and then back to the screen. "It's addictive. Incredibly so, actually. Creates feelings of euphoria and attraction, stimulates the sex drive, lowers inhibitions. The euphoria lingers for hours after the initial peak is over. Physical dependence is established in as little as five doses. Doesn't seem to have any especially bad long-term effects as long as you keep taking it, aside from those resulting from any bad decisions you make."

"So what does he want it for? Does he deal in drugs?" Mr. Russell asked from across the room.

"He never has before," Sherlock replied. He asked the computer to check for other anagrams of Motrubaphin in Mycroft Holmes's papers, and continued skimming the Bphuti Manor documents.

"Maybe he plans to sell the formula?" the other Sherlock suggested.

"Or he could still be testing it," offered John. "If, you know, he actually cared about the well-being of the people taking it. Which I gather he doesn't."

Something occurred to me. "Helen Donleavy has hired a number of users. Maybe she wants it for them? To keep them happy?"

"I doubt it," Mr. Russell replied. "There's simply no reason to introduce them to a new and sophisticated drug. It wouldn't even make them more functional, since they'd keep their dependencies on their current drugs."

"If anything, it would make more sense to give Motrubaphin to the rich and bored," said the other Sherlock. "In fact I can think of a few societies where it might be almost beneficial in countering their declining reproduction rates, though of course it would cause other problems."

"No, that's not my father," said Sherlock. "He doesn't get his hands dirty for a few users here and there. If he's turning to drugs, it's because drugs can give him what he really wants: power."

"What sort of power?" I asked. "You said he wasn't selling it."

"He doesn't need to. Not yet. The first taste is always free," Sherlock replied sardonically. He looked up. "Havoc said James Moriarty was visiting planets. Rich, sophisticated planets where the inhabitants want for nothing. My father doesn't want power over a few thugs. He wants a whole planet. He wants to be king."


	13. Chapter 13

I collapsed onto the couch in our sitting room. Thank heavens I'd ordered something comfortable. It had been a long day.

Sherlock's realization was followed by a flurry of activity as they worked out the rest of Mycroft Holmes' plan. The afternoon and evening had been spent discussing his possible targets, methods, and goals.

There were still a lot of details to be filled in, but they'd worked out a general profile for his attack. Motrubaphin would work best in a luxurious, highly mechanized society, where opportunities for dissemination would be common and the euphoria wouldn't interfere with the basic logistics of daily life. The inhabitants of such planets were frequently drug-users anyway, but Motrubaphin was different from most drugs in two respects: only Mycroft Holmes had the formula, and once people were addicted, going off it was usually deadly.

Motrubaphin altered the chemistry of the user's liver over time. The biggest changes happened after just a few days of use, but slight change continued for well over six months. As long as the person kept taking the drug, they'd never notice the change. But once the supply stopped, their liver would fail.

So Mycroft Holmes was doubtless planning to establish a supply of his drug on a planet (we hadn't worked out how yet - commercial manufacture was possible, but would be immensely complex to start and ramp up, especially on an unfamiliar planet), introduce it to the population and supply it for a few months (probably not for free, which would make them suspicious). Then the demands would start. If they wanted to survive, they'd give in.

It wasn't a plan that would work forever. Sooner or later someone would reverse-engineer the drug, or find a cure for the liver failure. But it would work for long enough to give Mycroft Holmes far more power and wealth than he had ever dreamed of.

I opened my eyes and looked around at the room. One plan found, who knows how many to go. I asked the computer for a blanket and some tea.

Sherlock came in and collapsed on the armchair across from me, blowing out a long breath. I poured tea into a mug and pushed it towards him.

"Do we know what the target is?" I asked.

He leaned forward to pick up the mug and shook his head. "Professor Moriarty is still visiting a wide variety of planets, including several this week that fit the profile for a fit target for Motrubaphin."

"So he hasn't picked yet."

"Indeed. Or, possibly, my father plans to target multiple planets."

"Because conquering only one planet would just be silly," I said, smiling a bit.

Sherlock smiled briefly, but he was still too upset to really respond. "Perhaps. Perhaps he intends to target all of them, in case his plan fails on some planets. Some people can resist addiction."

"Not to mention that they have far better medicine than we do," I pointed out. "I'm sure some of them can replace a damaged liver."

He stared gloomily into space. "Perhaps. But Motrubaphin also affects the immune system, the nervous system...over time I think it probably creates an entirely new being." He rubbed his arm absentmindedly.

"Are you okay?" I asked, after a minute.

His eyes focused on me. "My father is planning on enslaving entire planets of people, allowing many of them to die in the process. On the other hand, I've known he was a bastard for years. I'm rather surprised he didn't try it on me first." He took a sip of tea, and added, "The dying thing, that is. As you know, he's quite fond of controlling me when he can."

I was trying to figure out how to answer that when there was a knock at the door. Sherlock got up and opened the door, to find the other Sherlock waiting in the hallway.

"Havoc," Sherlock said, stepping back to allow him to enter.

"Mayhem," came the reply. The other Sherlock stepped inside and stood, looking slightly awkward.

Neither of them seemed to know what came next. "Would you like some tea, Havoc?" I offered. An extra cup appeared next to the pot on the table.

"Thank you." He took the filled cup from me and sat on the couch.

Sherlock sat also, but I noticed his posture was better now. The other Sherlock was a little taller than him.

"Congratulations on your deductions," offered the other Sherlock. "That was good work today."

Sherlock nodded.

"John says I owe you an apology," said the other Sherlock suddenly, "for questioning your objectivity earlier. I maintain that my concerns were valid, but he says they could have been expressed less offensively. I do not think that a different expression would have given less offense, and furthermore I imagine that the value of an apology for you is largely academic, as it is for me. However, if such a thing has value to you, there it is."

Sherlock stared into space for a minute. "Thank you, Havoc. If I am perfectly honest, your concerns echoed my own. I am pleased to find that I am able to think clearly."

The other Sherlock nodded and took a sip of tea. After a minute he continued, "John also says we should try to be...friends."

Sherlock glanced at me and smiled briefly. "Miss Watson has been so focused on getting me to talk about my feelings regarding my father that she has not yet urged me to socialize. But I suspect she agrees with John in that respect."

The other Sherlock put down his cup and stood. "Then should we have a game of pool before bed? There is a table downstairs."

Sherlock nodded and stood, and they left together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a reminder, "Sherlock"=Mayhem=Sherlock from Elementary and "the other Sherlock"=Havoc=Sherlock from BBC's Sherlock


End file.
